The first of the clippings told of Winstead Delthern’s death. It recited how the chief heir to the Delthern millions had been found sprawled on the floor of the lower hallway. Winstead Delthern, a man of poor health, had been subject to spells of dizziness. Such a fit, the coroner had decided, must have overcome him upon the upper landing.
The long, spinning fall down the precipitous stairway had resulted in instant death. The body had been found by Winstead’s brother, Humphrey; his cousin, Marcia Wardrop; and the servant, Wellington.
The second clipping referred to the funeral. It was the one that Rutledge Mann had cut out today, and it gave no further information.
The girasol sparkled as the left hand replaced the clippings in their envelopes. A soft laugh came from hidden lips above the lamp. The light clicked out. The whispered laugh increased in sound. It broke in strident mockery; its sinister tones came shuddering back from blackened walls.
Dying echoes faltered, lingering with long, uncanny rhythm. When their last faint lisps had ended, the room was no longer occupied. This strange abode of darkness, the sanctum of The Shadow, was empty. The master had departed.
Not long afterward, Lamont Cranston appeared at the entrance of the Cobalt Club. Stanley, at the wheel of the parked limousine, spied his master, and drove the car to the entrance. Entering the automobile, the millionaire gave his order to the chauffeur.
“To the airport, Stanley,” came the quiet, even tones of Lamont Cranston’s voice. “I am taking another flight.”
The chauffeur nodded, and tipped his cap. He was used to such instructions. Lamont Cranston was a man who came and went as he pleased.
The chauffeur did not know that the man whom he served as Lamont Cranston was actually that strange being called The Shadow. Nor did Stanley realize that any adventure, other than a trip by air, lay ahead of his employer.
Such were the ways of The Shadow. Back from one episode in his career against crime, the master of the night was starting on a new mission, about to move to his destination with all the swiftness at his command - a swiftness almost unbelievable.
The Shadow was on his way to Newbury!
CHAPTER IX
HUMPHREY ACCUSES
WHILE The Shadow’s swift plane was speeding toward Newbury, a gentleman in that city was utilizing a much more primitive form of locomotion. Horatio Farman, the attorney, was hobbling along the sidewalk of the avenue that led to Delthern Manor.
It was early evening, and Farman chose the old front entrance to the gray-stoned mansion. He rapped on the big door, and was admitted by Wellington, who immediately conducted the visitor to the upstairs study.
The scene that Farman viewed was very much the same that Warren Barringer had observed on his visit to the Manor several night ago. A crabby-faced man was seated behind a large desk, looking like a dried peanut in its shell, as he occupied a chair of great proportions.
But on this occasion it was Humphrey Delthern, not Winstead, who occupied the seat of honor. The new head of the old family glanced up with a querulous look as Farman entered, and waved the lawyer to a chair with the same imperious gesture that his dead brother had affected.
“Good evening, Farman,” rasped Humphrey Delthern. “I sent for you because I have an important matter to discuss.”
“So I presumed,” responded the attorney, with a smile.
“It concerns the death of my brother Winstead,” announced Humphrey abruptly.
“A most unfortunate accident,” observed the old lawyer, in a solemn tone.
“Accident?” Humphrey’s voice was indignant. “You believe it an accident, Farman? Winstead’s death was no accident! I know my brother was murdered!”
A startled look came into Horatio Farman’s eyes. The old lawyer’s gasp proved that this statement came to him as an amazing theory. He stared at Humphrey as one might gaze at a madman.
“Murder!” exclaimed Farman. “I cannot believe it, Humphrey. It is totally incredible!”
“Not at all,” responded Humphrey shortly. “I suspected it that night, when I came in and found Winstead’s body. But I had no proof then, Farman. It was not until afterward that I began to form a theory.”
“But the coroner -“
“He declared it death by misadventure. I let the verdict pass. Since then, I feel more and more convinced that Winstead was slain by a man who visited this house that night.”
“You suspect someone? Whom?”
A gleam of malice appeared in Humphrey Delthern’s eyes as the new head of the Delthern house released the bomb that he had prepared for Horatio Farman.
“Warren Barringer,” announced Humphrey.
HORATIO FARMAN sprang to his feet. The old attorney flamed with indignation. His hands trembled in momentary anger.
“Absurd!” he cried. “Preposterous! You have no right to even consider such an allegation!”
“Warren Barringer visited Winstead that night,” retorted Humphrey. “He was in this very room. Winstead died shortly after Warren had gone.”
“Warren Barringer was here?”
“Yes; and he had words with Winstead. I have questioned Wellington. The servant has admitted it.”
“But you say that Warren was gone when -“
“Precisely. But that does not mean that he could not have returned.”
“That would have to be proven, Humphrey. You, yourself, know that Winstead had a quarrelsome disposition. I am not surprised that he should engage in argument with Warren Barringer. That fact means nothing. Particularly as you have only Wellington to state that Warren was here.”
“Marcia saw him also.”
“Saw Warren here?”
“Yes,” declared Humphrey, with an evil leer. “Warren called up Winstead and stated, through Wellington, that he would call. He came, and Wellington admitted him by the front door. Warren talked with Marcia in the lower hallway.
“After that, Wellington conducted Warren upstairs. Marcia went out; I was out. Only Wellington remained. He admits, since I have questioned him, that there was an altercation. In fact, Winstead summoned Wellington and told him to show Warren to the door.”
“Did Wellington do so?” inquired Farman.
“He claims to have done so,” stated Humphrey. “I questioned him very carefully upon that point. But it would have been an easy matter for Warren Barringer to return and resume his controversy with Winstead.”
“This is all mere conjecture,” asserted the lawyer. “I advise you to forget the matter.”
“Forget it?” echoed Humphrey. “Do you realize, Farman, that the young upstart must actually have threatened my brother Winstead? That Winstead died by violence shortly afterward? My own life may be in danger!
“Here” - Humphrey drew two papers from the desk drawer - “are sworn statements made by myself and Wellington. They state the facts that I have mentioned. I order you to take them and keep them. You are my attorney; I expect you to show an interest in this important matter.”
“I represent all the Delthern heirs,” returned Farman. “I cannot be concerned with this, Humphrey. It is a serious step to make unsubstantiated charges against another man.”
“You talk like Marcia,” challenged Humphrey. “She refused to sign a statement of her own. Refused, mind you, even though she could be forced to declare that she saw Warren here the night that Winstead died.
“Fortunately, Wellington could not refuse to make his declaration. I threatened him with dismissal unless he was willing to put the truth in writing. He accepted my ultimatum. I have warned Wellington that there may be danger. He is standing by, ready to aid me should any attempt be made upon my life.”
HORATIO FARMAN raised his hands in a gesture of complete neutrality. He turned toward the door, signifying that he was about to leave. Humphrey Delthern sprang from the desk and blocked the way.
“You are making a mistake, Farman!” he stormed. “You will regret this! A dangerous killer is at large; should I die, my blood will b
e on your hands!”
“Your animosity is speaking now, Humphrey,” returned the lawyer calmly. “You sought to disinherit Warren Barringer. Your present actions make it appear that you are attempting to accomplish what you failed to do before. Let me remind you, however, that Winstead’s decision in favor of Warren Barringer cannot be overruled now.”
“Do you think I care about Warren’s interest?” sneered Humphrey. “What does it matter now? I am the eldest of the heirs. My half portion is assured. I simply want to protect myself; to be safe from the menace which I believe exists. Warren Barringer is probably filled with animosity because of my previous attempt to protect my rights as they then existed.”
“Have you met Warren Barringer?” questioned Farman.
“No,” returned Humphrey. “I do not care to do so.”
“It might be well,” remarked Farman, “for you to speak with him. You will find him a man of very fair-minded principles.”
“If he comes here,” growled Humphrey, “I suppose I shall have to talk with him. I shall have Wellington at hand to protect me. I shall be wiser than Winstead!”
“You still persist in your strange theory?”
“Yes. I warn you, Farman, if you will not take measures to thwart this upstart, I shall employ an attorney who will get to the truth of Winstead’s death. Do you realize that Warren Barringer has profited by killing my brother? The second half of the estate will now be divided among three instead of four.”
A triumphant gleam kindled in Horatio Farman’s eyes. The old lawyer had found the opening he desired.
He was recalling his own conversation with Warren Barringer; he felt that the young heir could never have been so foolish as to commit a crime which Farman, himself, had suggested as a potential menace. That fact, alone, convinced Farman that Humphrey was in error; and it also gave the attorney a chance to curb Humphrey’s accusations.
“If personal profit,” mused Farman, “can be regarded as a reason for considering Winstead’s death a murder, you are not the one to suggest it, Humphrey!
“Consider my words well. Until Winstead died, you were heir to only one eighth of the estate. Now you are to inherit half. Yours is the great gain. It would be logical to suppose that your interest in accusing someone else of murdering Winstead might be a cover for a crime that you, yourself, committed!”
The words staggered Humphrey Delthern. With sagging arms, the thin-faced man groped for the desk. He reached his great chair and sat down suddenly.
“I think,” added Farman convincingly, “that you would do well to forget your charges against Warren Barringer - certainly until you have more tangible evidence than the fact that he was here on the night that Winstead died.”
HUMPHREY DELTHERN nodded slowly. His manner changed, and a hunted look appeared upon his face.
“This is terrible, Farman,” he gasped. “I never thought of my position. That makes it far worse. My fears are actual; I really believe that Winstead was murdered. Should I speak - now - I, myself, might be accused. I am helpless.”
“You are reasonable, now, Humphrey,” declared Farman quietly. “Forget your apprehensions; they are the result of overstrain. I can assure you that Warren Barringer would not have been so foolhardy as to attack Winstead. The coroner has declared the death an accident.”
“But my own life may be in danger!” pleaded Humphrey. “Don’t you understand, Farman? Perhaps I am overstressed -“
“That is all,” persisted the attorney. “Do not let your imagination saddle you with a mania. Keep Wellington here if you are apprehensive. Take my advice; be calm; and be careful that you do not act foolishly.”
“I believe you may be right,” nodded Humphrey. “I shall keep these sworn papers - and I shall be on my guard. But I shall hold my peace; and should Warren Barringer come to see me, I shall study him. You are right, Farman; I must not move until I know more.”
The old lawyer departed. He met Wellington on the stairs. He spoke to the servant cautiously.
“Take good care of Mr. Humphrey,” remarked the lawyer. “His nerves are taxed. He must not be left alone, unguarded. Remember, Wellington, it is your duty to the head of the Delthern household.”
“Yes, sir,” said the servant. “I shall remember.”
On the street, Horatio Farman pondered as he tapped the sidewalk with his cane. Of Warren Barringer’s innocence, the old man had no doubt; but he was speculative regarding Humphrey Delthern’s sincerity.
The new head of Delthern Manor had suggested murder. Was it the outcry of a guilty conscience? Horatio Farman wondered. The death of Winstead Delthern had been an event which Farman had considered beforehand.
Winstead’s death could not be revoked now. Humphrey, the lawyer decided, would hold his peace. A few weeks more, and the estate would be settled.
Yet even with this final thought - with the analysis that he had made concerning the respective situations of Humphrey Delthern and Warren Barringer - Horatio Farman could not shake off a strange belief that new menace might even now be impending at Delthern Manor!
CHAPTER X
AT THE CLUB
SOME time after Horatio Farman’s departure from Delthern Manor, Warren Barringer entered the lobby of the City Club. He inquired for Clark Brosset, and was informed that the president was in his office on the second floor.
Warren went to the designated spot, tapped on the door, and received an order to enter. He found Clark Brosset seated at his desk.
The dignified president greeted his visitor with a quiet smile.
“Good evening, Warren,” he said. “I wanted to meet you in the lounge, but I have been kept busy longer than I expected.”
Brosset swept some account books from the desk and opened a small safe that was set in the wall. He locked the strong box, speaking as he did so.
“You are enjoying your membership here?” he asked.
“Immensely,” returned Warren. “Thanks to you, Clark, I feel quite at home in Newbury.”
“Bothered any more by Cousin Jasper?”
“Not at all. I have seen him once or twice. He just nodded sulkily.”
“He is still sore because I called him down,” declared Brosset. “I’ve had him on the carpet twice since the night I met you. In fact, he was just in here a short while ago, but I refrained from mentioning your name.
“I threatened him with expulsion if he repeated his nasty behavior. That’s why he’s watching his actions. He drinks outside, and keeps steady when he’s in this place. He lives here, you know, and he likes it. In fact, the City Club is the only place where he is accepted at all. Jasper Delthern - the black sheep of the family.”
“I feel sorry for him,” stated Warren. “In fact, Clark, I have felt very sober since the night when Winstead Delthern died. You remember that I talked with you here immediately after I left Delthern Manor.”
“Yes,” responded Clark Brosset, coming from the safe. “You had a pretty stormy interview with Winstead, didn’t you?”
“That’s just it,” admitted Warren. “To think that he died so shortly afterward. Honestly, Clark, it makes me feel a sense of guilt.”
Clark Brosset slapped Warren on the shoulder. The president of the City Club was calm and reassuring when he spoke.
“Forget it, Warren,” he urged. “It’s not wise to let such things prey upon your mind. I’m glad that you did not broadcast the fact that you were at Delthern Manor that evening. If you had, there might be cause for apprehension.”
“I am glad that you are the only person who knows it,” asserted Warren. “Of course, we were talking in the grillroom. Someone may have overheard us.”
“Not Jasper Delthern, at least,” stated Brosset. “The less he knows of your doings, Warren, the better. In fact, he has become very shifty lately. He was not at all straightforward when I talked with him this evening.”
“You don’t think,” questioned Warren, “that he bears me any malice?”
“I hope not,”
commented Brosset.
THE two men descended to the grillroom. They ordered sandwiches and coffee as they sat at a corner table. Suddenly, Brosset, who was looking toward the outer corridor, nudged Warren.
“There’s Jasper now,” whispered the president. “At the bottom of the steps.”
Warren looked and saw his cousin standing alone. Jasper’s eyes were turned down the corridor. His lips were moving viciously, as though engaged in silent comment. Warren stared.
“I wonder what’s come over him,” he remarked, in a low tone. “Look at his face, Clark! It’s terrible!”
Brosset nodded.
“I don’t like it, Warren,” he murmured. “I’ve noticed that about Jasper before. There’s something on his mind; that’s certain. You know, he has done some mighty mean things in his time.”
As Brosset finished speaking, Jasper, who had not seen the others watching him, moved rapidly along the corridor. A sharp exclamation came from Clark Brosset’s lips.
“He’s going to telephone!” said the club president. “One of those booths down the corridor. I’d better check up on this!”
He half rose from his chair; then sat down again and looked around the room.
“I’d better not go myself,” he remarked. “It wouldn’t be wise after the bawling out I gave him. Wait - I’ll send Louie, the steward.”
Brosset looked about, but the attendant was not in sight. The president hesitated, about to go himself.
“Maybe it’s better not to send Louie,” he said. “Jasper may be in some mixup. If so, I ought to know about it -“
“Suppose I go,” suggested Warren, rising. “Wait here, Clark. I’ll let you know if anything is up.”
Reaching the corridor, Warren noted that one of the two telephone booths was occupied. He slipped into the empty one, and found that he could hear Jasper’s voice from the next booth.
“That’s right, Wellington,” Jasper was saying. “You keep out of it, see? Like you did the other night… Don’t worry now - I fixed number one, didn’t I?… Leave it to me; I’ll get number two… You’d better be out in the garage, talking with that new chauffeur, Holley. The alibi is your lookout. I’ll take care of Humphrey.”
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